MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.1 (double sesh) WED 16JUL2014

The surf's not always going off when I come here, but I still love this place.

Loc: Oceanside

Crew: Eight-Inch Al

Time: 0745-1030

Conditions: 4FT+, clean.

Pre Blog:

     Upon graduating from school almost two months ago, I had already planned to take the summer off. There will be plenty of time, probably the rest of my life until retirement, to work and be a nine-to-fiver, so I might as well enjoy life while I can. This summer is my last hoorah before life gets too serious. Therefore, I’m creating a series of chronicles dedicated to my unemployed beach-bum summer, my very own “endless summer.”

The Return of Eight-Inch Al:

     So it begins. . . My buddy Al was my roommate in Iraq. For ten months, I had to endure his gnarly farts in our tiny two-man room. Last year we took a trip to Indo together, and I haven’t seen him since. Since he’s in transition between jobs right now, he’s found the rare opportunity to travel south for a couple of days.

Day 0:

     We didn’t surf the day that Al had showed up, which was Tuesday afternoon, but I had made plans to make the best of the day. I took him to our friend’s surf shop, where he was able to rack up on discounts for much needed surf gear. Next, we scored Cabo Cantina’s taco Tuesdays, and let me tell ya, five dollars for all you can eat tacos is a no brainer. Khang even joined us for a few beers.

     Afterwards, I had to make sure that he got some face time with my surf mentor, Rick A. We had caught him at his house without the wife and the kids home, so he had the opportunity to tell Al all about his trip to Costa Rica, which was highly relevant since Al is getting married there next year.

     It was important for me to bring Al back into the fold. We could have easily just went to a bar, drank, came back, and slept early for the rest of his trip, but relationships were at stake here. Who knows when he’ll be able to make it back again?

     Even late at night, with work the next morning, Klaude made it to my pad to say wassup.

We call him Eight-Inch Al. You can kind of see his man bulge. And Klaude continues to morph into a male model since his eye surgery.

The Right Call:

     With only four hours of sleep, we manage to wake up at 0430, car already packed. Our first destination is Trestles, in hopes that the incoming swell will have some early-morning forerunners. One look at Old Man’s at San Onofre tells me otherwise. In the darkness of this predawn hour, I can see that the tide is completely drained out. Little two foot peaks roll in. They are clean, but not what we came here for. I can already see tiny shoulders at Churches dribbling its own brand of white wash. Al suggests we head to Oceanside.

     This is where I’m supposed to say how O-Side is going off, but it’s not. It’s a hair bigger with small scattered peaks rolling in by the jetty, but it’s drained here as well.

     So it’s off to a McDonald’s breakfast, and honestly, I had NO IDEA that their oatmeal breakfast was so freaking delicious. What the hell do they put in there?

Lacking the patience to wait for a set, I snap a quick pick before suiting up.

     The wrong call was Trestles. The wrong call, allegedly, is Oceanside. The right call was breakfast because right now, the surf is about two feet bigger than it was forty-five minutes ago.

     “I haven’t surfed in almost three months,” says Al. “I might be rusty.” He lives in Sunnyvale, and his closest surf spot is Santa Cruz, but he hasn’t had a chance to hit the small windows of surf that NorCal offers in the summer.

     Meanwhile, I’m concerned about my own surfing. I had been expecting small, 2-3 FT surf, so I only have my Motorboat Too groveler, and, from my experience, it underperforms in punchy shoulder-high plus surf. I didn’t even bring my bigger AM2 Futures fins.

     The tide is still low upon walking out. Al asks me repeatedly if the water’s been warm or not. I reassure him that his short-sleeve full 2/2 should be fine. He’s so used to surfing cold water.

     The crowd is thin, with only two surfers just north of the jetty, where we are, and a small handful of guys further north at another peak.

     Walking into deeper water, some four footers start rolling in. After surfing Trestles for a while, Oceanside waves look a lot more menacing. All ego aside, I’m not gonna hold my dick and act like I’m some kind of big-wave surfer. The waves here stand up more and are rounder, making wipeouts a little more consequential and the duckdives harder. I paddle out with a conservative mindset, especially on my small-wave board.

     Most of the waves coming in are long with a declining line, offering a small shoulder. The low rocker surprisingly gets me into the wave much earlier than expected. On the low tide, the wave immediately stretches out into a long pumpable face. I race down the line, pulling off a lackluster check turn on the lip before it closes out. All in all. Not bad. My board feels a lot better than I had expected.

     From there, the waves just get better and better. Al and I begin pumping this swell up. We’re definitely gonna score at Trestles if O-side is doing this.

     My skatey board is working well in these conditions, taking off on a four-foot set and pulling off an opening carve as the shoulder reforms and doubles up. I’m comfortable, bending my knees and sliding down the face as the section before me rebuilds. I get two big swooping pumps just flying down the line. Why not go for an air attempt? I have speed.

     I eye the section in front of me before the closeout and launch off of it, but my fins never break loose, and I flop backwards onto the water with my nose pointed towards the sky, as if my board were a dog being yanked back by its chain. No airs today. Maybe none for another ten years. Maybe never. Although, it is fun to push your surfing and try different things.  

     Al does pretty well, getting his surfing redialed again. He gets some long lefts, and then he just starts going for everything, even the closeouts. I try to tell him to be pickier, but he just can’t help himself.

     The sun comes out by 0945. So do other surfers. An army of groms assault the break on their foam boards. And you’d think that the surf would get better with the tide push, but it doesn’t. The small rise affects the surf with swampy like conditions. The lines get longer and offer up less.

     We leave the water by 1030, and I’m surprised to see that the tide isn’t that high, yet the surf is so affected right now, lullier and smaller than it had been earlier.

     Regardless, we’re stoked. What had looked like a case of the skunks turned out to be the excellent start of a surf trip. O-side was the right call.

#

Loc: Churches-Middles

Crew: Al, Khang, Sebastian

Time: 1630-2030

Conditions: 3-4FT+, onshore, walled

"Dude, I totally wanna do you tonight."
"Me too!"

Gotta have the beer in hand during surf recon

     After checking in to our campsite, Khang joins us. We watch the surf the whole afternoon, even go on a recon walk to check out Middles and Lowers. The verdict. . . Lowers is the only spot working. We’ve been bamboozled. Oceanside had been so good earlier. Trestles had to be just as good, was what we had believed. But at 1630 there’s no sign of the shape improving, bigger waves, or calming wind. Our best bet is to paddle out and hope for conditions to change.

     We hit the top of the wave at Churches first. A shortboarder is on a right, connecting all the sections of a racy wave. There’s chop on its surface, but he’s pumping down the line and managing it well. He ends the ride with a small, backhand cutback, rebounding off of the whitewash. There might be hope.

     Once out there, I get some similar waves, just chasing the sections and going down the line. For forty-five minutes, the three of us secure this spot. For forty-five minutes, we don’t get one quality ride. Even though the tide is low, the inside mooshes out, too weak to carry our boards further.

     I hate it when Churches and Trestles aren’t working. It’s not what we come here for. Not worth reserving a campsite, loading up my car, driving the distance, and staying for a couple days for.

     “I’m gonna check Middles,” I say. I’m so disgusted that I don’t even want to make the paddle. I catch a wave in and make the walk.

     Looking at the surf is like walking through a war-torn city. The shape here is worse. Just long crumbly lines of three-foot closeouts. I reach the battle position and stop. Nothing’s happening here. There’s Lowers in the distance. Despite the onshore wind, the gold and blinding light reflects off of the A-frame peaks. The black outline of a surfer is getting frontside cutbacks on a never-ending right. Dozens of black dots paddle back out for more waves. Lowers is the treadmill that never turns off, the wave that never sleeps. The biggest lie in surfing. The most rippable and accessible wave that is so competitive that it’s inaccessible. I can go on and on.

     I turn around to head back to the churning shit surf, which is Churches, but I notice Khang just making the paddle to Middles from Churches. He didn’t opt to walk. He waves at me from the distance. As much as I don’t want to surf here, I’m so stoked to see how motivated my buddy is. I’ll have to join him.

     It gets a little bigger. Four foot closeouts with a face that might hold up for a quick turn before the lip crashes. Sets start coming in. We’re darting outside. Yet, no shape. Yet, there’s Lowers in the distance. Perfection in the palm of my hand, looking at it from here.

     “I’m going to see if there’s anything swinging wide,” I say to Khang, before paddling over there.

Wave Thievery:

     Oh Lowers, how I love and hate you. Mostly hate. It’s like walking through the Amsterdam Red Light district without any money, armed only with a throbbing boner. I see your waves and want them badly, and so do the other hundred guys here.

     I sit wide. So do some others. The looks on their faces are defeated and apprehensive. Fists clenched on their rails, unable to paddle back in and unable to move closer. Nothing swings wide, and when a wave appears like it will, there’s always someone at the main peak that paddles into it first.

     The pack. The uninfiltratable pack. Guys who I had just seen on the right-hand waves paddle past me over and over again, still scoring. The middle and inside of Lowers is packed too, a clusterfuck of surfers who settle for the smaller ones. But what does that make me? Clinching my rails, sitting on the outside, I am a mere begger. I can’t even compete for the scraps. I’m not competing. I’m just hoping that a crumb will fall off of the table and land before me.

     Another surfer paddles past me and doesn’t look at me. He probably doesn’t even see me. I’m invisible. And the look of determination on his hard-edged face just shows that he knows he’s going to get another wave.

     I think about my brother’s advice: Always sit on the peak. I think about Rick and Gary, those old school Venice guys. They wouldn’t be out here on the shoulder if they were here. So I paddle. I compete.

     The current keeps the main pack paddling north to stay in place. It almost looks choreographed. Synchronized surfing.

     The sun’s rays are so blinding that everything is aflame with orange. The surfers backs are shadows. It hurts just to look towards sun, so we all face south towards the sea, waiting for the peak. We all sit during the lull. One guy starts paddling. Everyone starts paddling again.

     I’m faced with the same dilemma I’m always faced with surfing here. If I sit tight in the pack, I feel so claustrophobic. If a set wave comes, I don’t want to get run over or be in anyone’s way. So I sit further out, but now I’m out too far for the waves coming in.

     I try to turn and go, but I’m out positioned. I see the same guys returning from the inside, ready for the next meal. Meanwhile, I can only watch more waves come and go, putting up a pathetic attempt to scrap for it, only for “Christmas not to come this year” every single time.

     Everyone paddles against the current again, a surf migration of arms and planks to move twenty feet just to get pulled back. I see the same kid who was sitting wide when I had first got here. He’s in the same place, same position, same look on his face, the open-mouthed grin filled with metal, not frowning nor smiling, just frozen.

     Paddle back. Fuck this. I hate this fucking place. No waves  there. No waves here, at least none that I can catch.

     I’m sitting at the top of the wave but wide and off to the side. A wave passes me. Behind it, a massive wall of water stands up on the far outside. When I say far on the outside, I mean it is fucking FAR. I can feel the air suck out from all around me. We’re all thinking the same thing. It’s a rogue wave, the set of the evening, six feet easy, jutting out of the sea as if the ocean were flexing a bicep, and oh yeah, it’s been working out.

     Just like that, everyone sitting at the peak is too deep for this wave.

     I’ve been anxious since the second I entered this territory. I paddle out without much urgency because I already know that I’m in the perfect spot. Wide. Now, will anybody take this wave from me?

     I turn as the peak stands up. Just about every surfer on my inside has duckdived this wave. A brave soul turns to go. As the lip curls, he’s fully enveloped and swallowed by it. Gone. Right on my inside, a guy is paddling for it. It’s now or never. If he gets it, I’ll be in his line. I kick, scratch, and pop up. The take off is steep and fast. I go from lying on my belly to looking down at a long dark slope. The guy next to me purls his inside rail, and he disappears into the wave with a violent splash.

     Time slows. I’m so high up. From my vantage point, The building on top of the cliffs above Middles appears closer. Below me, a sea of surfers unexpectedly caught in the impact zone of a giant wave, the wave that I am on.

     It’s not even about surfing this wave well. It’s about not losing it. This is a Lowers wave. Not just a wave. A BOMB. For those surfers out there who have that competitive edge to get wave after wave here, as much as I hate you, I salute you. I do not have what it takes. That being said, I should not be the surfer on this wave, not the guy who sits wide, hoping for one to fall onto his lap. But I’m here. I’m on it. I got it.

     The wave’s a bit big for my groveler. I feel the rush of water underneath me and the air in my face. Dozens of surfers below me. I’m staring at all those in my path. Paddling with eyes wide, they stare back at me. Probably both in awe and a little bit of, please don’t fucking run me over.

     I bottom turn at mid face and hit the lip. I’m hung up, almost losing it. Not on the first turn! But somehow, I don’t know if it’s the wind, I’m pushed back down the face.

     More people on the shoulder. I point at the gap I’m going to shoot for, between two surfers going up the face and one other guy just a few feet behind them. I shoot for it. Clear it. A little more weaving is involved to set up my last turn. I’m clear. There’s so much texture on the water. The end section is standing up for one last hit. I do another midline bottom turn and tag it once more before it closes out.

     I did it. I got one. I get down on my belly and ride the white wash all the way in.

#

     To say that I’m stoked is an understatement. I’m smiling at the people sitting on the cobblestones on shore. They probably don’t know why, but I don’t care. Grinning from ear to ear, I look back at Lowers. Motherfuckers. Haha. I can’t believe it. Someone waves at me from Middles. It’s Khang.

     I’m so done. I don’t want to paddle back out, but I can’t leave the homie hanging either.

     My third time paddling out this evening, I reach him.

     “Duuuude!” I say.

     Khang smiles, shakes his head, and says, “I saw the whole thing.”

#

     Al’s back at camp. So is Sebastian, with his wetsuit unpeeled to his waist. Turns out that the shape at Trestles had gotten a little better after Khang and I left. Seba had shown up with his longboard and met up with Al in the water.

     Churches is looking a little better now. The wind has calmed, making the surface conditions clean again.

     It wasn’t an ideal evening session, but we’re all here now. Four friends, drinking beers to the setting sun.

You know you got real friends when they don't surf but still paddle out with you anyway. Sea Bass on the left.

     We opt to go to Denny’s for dinner. I order two different breakfast meals from the value menu, four bucks each. It’s a lot of food.

     I thought I knew San Clemente, but I was wrong. A bunch of white kids cOme in, baseball caps twisted to the side and wearing wife-beater tank tops. Some chicks there Are all tatted up, wearing short shorts with the cheeks hanging out. Wow. Who knew San Clemente was a little Ghetto?

     Instead of the big Coleman Instatent that I usually use for me and Bri, I brought smaller tent that I had let Francis and Alex use last week. It was so hot earlier that we didn’t bother to attach the rain fly.

     Lying next to Al on the inflatable mattress, the mesh screen lets us see the night sky. The moon is right above us. I haven’t camped like this in a while.

     “Dude, this is so romantic,” I say.

     “I’m so tired,” says Al.

     I giggle going through my phone.

     “What are you doing?” he says. He puts his head back down on the pillow and rubs his eyes. “I know you’re up to your bullshit right now. I’m not in the mood.”

     I show him my phone. It’s gay porn. One dude’s blowing another guy.

     “You’re fucking sick,” he says. I have myself a good laugh. 

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.V, (double sesh) THU 10JUL2014

Loc: North Churches

Crew: Bri, Francis, Alex, Rick

Time: 0600-0830

Conditions: Overcast, cool, consistent, 2-3 FT.

     With the swell on its way out, the surf completely cleans up. There is good shape, but it’s small now. With a mid-morning high tide, there’s also a small window before the surf slows down.

     I paddle out first and catch a long, pumpy wave all the way to the inside. No turns.

     Rick is frustrated. Paddling, backing out, or just kicking out early after a soft ride. He shakes his head, a little frustrated. I already know what he’s thinking. It’s better in front of the campsite, top and bottom of the wave at Churches. Not here.

     Francis is forced to ride my JS, the back-up board for the trip, but it’s too small for these tiny conditions.

     Then something happens. At mid tide, a window of good surf opens up, and Rick turns on. He’s on fire. The human wave magnet exists.

     We all watch him take this small left, pumping the whole time. He gets floaters all the way to the inside, ending the ride with both biceps flexed and arms curled, right in front of a bunch of Marines who are swimming.

     The rest of us shake our heads. It’s unbelievable. We all get decent waves, but none of us are as stoked as Rick.

     Back at the campsite, it’s time to pack things up. The mission for today is to be as hungry as possible for AYCE sushi in Mission Viejo, and this morning’s surf session didn’t have us exerting enough energy to work up our appetites.

     By 1000, Bri and I are ready for the second session. Alex and Francis decide to pass. It’s small right now, but the surf is so clean. The hot air makes it hard to pass on paddling out, so Bri and I go for a couple’s session.

     If there’s any session that Bri owned during this trip, it’s this one. In small, one-to-three foot surf, she’s barely stagnant. She’s catching wave after wave the entire session. She rides, knees bent, conforming her body to the proper pose needed to milk the ride.

     I sample the single fin Kadowaki, not turning but trying to surf stylish as well. It’s almost three inches thick and paddles so easy. I get up early on all my waves, walking the board, even trying to surf backwards before eating shit. Both rights and lefts, it’s a session that brings us to exhaustion, perfect for AYCE.

     It’s time to say goodbye to Rick and our campsite. Bri and I do the final loading. Francis and Alex were betting on the junior lifeguard events while we were gone, and dues need to be paid. Francis eats five ants. Alex douses his face with water, opens his mouth, and plops down face first into the sand. He pushes himself up, tongue out, looking like Sand Thing. They’re really close friends.

Salmon Roe, Spicy Scallop, Unagi, Hamachi, White Tuna, and Salmon. Pick your fish!

Okay . . . one of these guys is extremely stoked. . .

     Our reward, all you can eat sushi for just twenty bucks each. Every morsel is tasty, but we’re so beached and worn out from the trip, I think we’re more tired than hungry.

     I go to the bathroom to piss. Washing my hands, I see myself in the mirror. “Holy shit,” I say. My eyes are bloodshot red. My face, arms, ears, everything. I’m so fucking dark right now. Completely beached.

Contemplating the dinner decision after unpacking.

     We get some coffee before the long drive back. To end the whole trip, we meet up with Klaude at Metro Café for dinner, and we do it big. Since Klaude is an O.G. here, we get wine and appetizers, everything except dessert.

No better way to contrast the surf by having some fine dining with KK. Thank God we didn't have to dress up.

Tired, but still going. Still stoked here.

     We go until about 2230. We’re all about ready to pass out. It’s over. Back at the apartment with Bri, it’s finally over. I miss the ocean, but it’s nice sleeping in my own bed.

#

     

Khang meeting us for chow in El Segundo.

     The next day, we have lunch with Khang, and he tells us about the sale going on at Quiksilver. “You guys need to go,” he says. So we go. A last minute surgical strike so my homies can get discount gear. We even catch Dais there, as he clocks in for his shift.

     Bri and I drop them off at the airport, Francis first and then Alex. We tell them that we’ll see them in a couple of months when we go to Hawaii.

     Initially, I was worried about how I had planned the camping trip. I thought that Alex and Francis might get bored, just sitting at the beach the whole time. The surf was always questionable, as I’ve caught south swells that are just way too walled in the past. And the shape wasn’t that great on this trip, but it didn’t matter.

     I got to have quality time with one of the most beautiful friends that I have. A lot of us did: Bri, Rick, Dais, Khang, Klaude, Cheryl, Silverton. Even though the surf wasn’t classic, the trip was about being together.

     I had said that my favorite memory was at Jack In the Box, but looking back now, I’d say that my favorite thing about camping was the moon. Just sitting there in silence with my girlfriend Bri, Rick, my newest friend Alex, and The Sauce, we shared an appreciation for life that didn’t even need mentioning.

     And it won’t be the last time. This spot will always be here, and Francis will be back again, whether it takes another two years or more. 

Aloha, bruddah Francis. We'll always be here for you.

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.IV, (double sesh) WED 09JUL2014

Loc: North Churches, Middles, Lowers

Crew: Bri, Francis, Alex, Rick

Time: 0630-0900

Conditions: Light overcast, consistent, warm, sectiony, 3-4 FT+.

     “It was a raccoon,” says Francis. I saw it. It had something in its mouth and carried it away.”

     “How big was it?”

     He holds out his hands much wider than its body. “At least fifty pounds,” he says. “It just looked at me all pissed off and walked off slow.” Francis imitates it with a mean walk-by.

     I call Rick. He’s late. He’s supposed to be here to set up his daughter’s birthday party campsite right next to ours. I tell him that we’re heading towards Middles and that we’ll meet him there.

     On the way to Middles, I stop and paddle out at North Churches. The left is working the best that it’s been since we’ve been here.

     My first wave solidifies the trip. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to all along, to get a wave at my favorite spot here, a frontside wave, a LEFT. The incoming tide makes the shape a little soft. It doesn’t take much water here because the left lines up into deeper water, but the wave stands up and still holds shape, a little soft but still skatey. I get two front side turns and end it with a baby floater. Stoked.

     The only problem is that everyone is on it today. It’s even more crowded than yesterday. A Japanese contingent of five surfers takes every good wave, one by one.

     Bri’s frustrated with the crowd, so she sits right on the border of Churches and Middles, really taking the ones that swing wide.

     Alex and Francis aren’t surfing aggressively, but they position themselves at the take-off spot the whole time, staying in prime contention for waves. But not me. Too claustrophobic.

     Bri and I paddle to Middles. One of the cleanest A-frames I’ve seen the whole trip rolls through. I take the right, getting one turn before it closes out.

     We run into Lori and Kurt.

     “I saw your friend Rick,” she says. “About an hour ago.” She points towards Lowers. “He paddled over there.”

     I track Rick down, and then I see his bald head. He’s doing battle at Lowers, much better than I had yesterday. He’s on two waves but kicks out for guys already on them. But he gets an unmolested right all to himself. It’s a small one, but he surfs it well, throwing out buckets the whole time.

     We all join at Middles. Unfortunately, the incoming tide already makes the spot inconsistent, so we call it an early session and head in.

     Breakfast is pancakes, eggs, and sausage. I feed everyone. Soon, Rick sets up camp and his daughter and her teenage crew show up.

     Alex is an extremely handsome man. Coast Guard. Male model material. I introduce him to the teenage girls as my male modeling friend who is taking a break from his photo shoot. I also say, “And he has very nice abs.” Alex, who’s standing there shirtless, doesn’t see this compliment coming. Four sets of eighteen-year-old eyes look down towards his six pack and package. Alex . . . you’re welcome.

#

     Alex takes off to catch the Argentina vs. Netherlands game, while Bri, Francis, and I opt for an early afternoon surf session before the tide kills it once more.

     We surf north Churches again, where the Japanese contingent still remains. It’s good for the first hour. It turns a little inconsistent. More people leave, and we have it to ourselves.

     Francis rides the Kadowaki single fin, styling on his rides. Not as many turns this time, but hot-dogging poses. He surfs it well.

     I’m here for the lefts, getting my turn of the trip, frontside pumping and getting a legit forehand snap right in front of Francis. He cheers me on. I’m going to miss how much he pushes my surfing.

     It’s an early end to the afternoon sesh. The sun’s still nice and high. We kill a beer at the showers, a classic tradition started by Fransauce.

Chef Briana, propane stove extraordinaire. 

Seba is late for the surf, but not late enough to take off his shirt! Seba, Francis, Alex, Rick.

     Alex returns. My buddy Sebastian shows up to hang out. Rick gets the grill going. Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. Alex ends up roasting marshmallows with one of the teenage chicks by the grill. They whisper softly to themselves. Why, if Alex were a lesser man, he’d . . .

     That night, once all is settled, the moon nestles behind some low-lying clouds, but its light is still bright. Our once-quiet campsite is now filled with teenage giggling, the annoying kind.

     This time, we bring our beach chairs out to the sand. We’re the only ones on the beach.

     “What’s your best wave this trip?” says Alex. We all take our turns. Next is the Best-Non-surf-Moment category, and we go over that, too. My favorite memory is that night at Jack In the Box, just seeing all my friends and my woman so stoked over the day’s events.

     It’s our last night here, and we try to milk it as much as possible. The moon only peeks out for quick moments at a time. Still, if we stay out here and refuse going to sleep, we can make this whole trip last just a little while longer. 

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.III, (double sesh) TUE 08JUL2014

Surf Recon Bri doing the afternoon surf check.

Loc: North Churches, Middles, Lowers

Crew: Bri, Dais, Francis, Alex, Lee

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: Sunny, consistent, warm, sectiony, 4-5 FT+.

Pre Blog:

     For the life of me, I can’t remember exactly where the session started. I want to say that we had started at North Churches, but I only know for sure that we did surf Middles, so that’s where this journey begins.

Bump In the Night:

     Last night, we heard a crash outside of the fence. I hoped that it was just Francis. I could’ve checked, but I was fucking tired, and I did not feel like climbing out of my inflatable mattress.

     When we woke up, I found our food cooler had been knocked off of our picnic table and was on the ground.

     “The trash, too,” said Francis. I looked over. Something chewed through it and made a mess.

#

     The five of us paddle out at Middles, just south of a rock formation that I had once named Battle Position, but since then its bunker-like exterior has not withstood the test of time, and it looks more like a rock mound now.

     Consider it the bottom of the wave at Middles, while the top of the wave lies in front of a building that sits on top of the cliffs, just south of Lowers.

     If the surf has backed off, it only has by a hair. But the shape has improved a little bit. At least not all of the waves are walled, as there are some with shoulders. But I’m not necessarily having the greatest time, so I push it further north. I push it to Lowers.

     Every time I surf Lowers, I get so damn frustrated. I sit wide, hoping that random set waves will swing my way where I sit all by my lonesome. Of course nothing swings wide enough to avoid the proverbial bastard on the inside, taking off right at the peak.

     I sit with the main pack. In front of the main pack. Still. I’m not made to surf here. Too tight. Too compact. Too competitive.

     I resort to sitting on the inside of Lowers with some other stragglers, and of course, that’s when the sets start coming in. With a crowd behind me—buddies, pressing parents, and photogs—I duckdive the waves while surfers take off right in front of me.

     “I just want one,” is the mantra, and I finally get one—a small, three-foot, insider. It drops me off closer to Middles where I can lower my head and paddle away.

     But approaching Middles, I’m met with smiling faces. Dais looks stoked. Francis’ face is bright and smiling.

     “Some good ones here,” says Francis.

     Maybe I fucked up. Did I abandon my Battle Position too early? And then Francis sells it, frontside rights. Back to back even. He’s surfing so well, reminiscent to a Rick Amador show when he’s surfing El Porto, wrap-around cutbacks the whole way. Bri scores. Dais scores.

     “I’m going in,” says Alex, and then he takes off on a bomb right, single-fin pumping on a huge white-wash face. Only feet behind him, close enough to piss on his ankles, is a Japanese surfer in a pink wetsuit. Pinkie doesn’t call Alex out of it, and Alex continues to ride his wave so focused, with a look on his face like nothing else in the world exists.

     For lunch, we head to Duke’s in San Clemente to watch Brazil get spanked by Germany. How sad to see all those Brazilians crying on their home turf, seeing their team get annihilated. The horror!

Session 2:

     Dais leaves to work, but his coworker Lee shows up to hang for the day. He’s a longhaired musician type, and he has a five-fin medium shortboard.

     We all paddle out at Middles before the tide tops out. Again, the sets are walled, but there are some shoulders here and there. I take off on my first left. Lee’s on my outside. He takes off too. He creates a wake on the already-fast section, so I have no way of catching up to the face. He rides the wave all the way inside. When he comes back, he paddles up to me and says, “That was probably the best wave I had in my life.”

     We surf for a couple of hours, but the high tide changes the shape for the worst, and the size still isn’t tapering down.

     There’s a cleanup set for like six waves. I’m furthest out. I duckdive every single one cleanly except for the last one.

     There’s another cleanup set before we leave. I’m right beside Lee when we prepare to duckdive it. Instead, Lee slides off of his board with speed, like he’s in fear for his life. He pushes his board to the side, puts his hands together, and dives under the wave. I duckdive, weary of catching his surfboard on my head. I come up clean.

     “Hey, dude,” I say. “You gotta hold onto your board.”

     “Oh,” he smiles. “Yeah, I’m so used to longboarding, you know. I didn’t hit you did I?”

     “No, I’m fine. It’s not ‘round’ here, so you can duckdive it. You’ll be fine. Just hold onto it.”

     Back at the campsite, Lori and Kurt stop by and invite us over for a bonfire.

     After Lee goes home, the four of us head over. Even though it’s warm, the fire is nice and comforting. We learn all about our local pals from Manhattan Beach.

     Kurt is retired Air Force, and he surfs here all the time. “I once lived here for a whole year,” he says, motioning to his camper.

     He’s originally from Oahu, so he, Francis, and Alex hit it off very well.

     Lori’s daughter is on Rising Star on Fox, and they ask if we’ll vote for her.

     Kurt is a man’s man, offering up more beer. Francis is the only taker. We leave before 2300.

     Back at the Churches campsite, we’re much more remote. There are no campfires here or families moving about. The sky is darker. The moon isn’t full, but it’s so bright that it casts a light over everything, and it renders our propane lamp unnecessary.

     “I haven’t been able to just relax and surf like this in so long,” says Francis, looking out over the ocean. Moonlight reflects off of his eyes.

     We’re all tired. I tuck Bri into bed and then come back outside to join Alex and Francis. They’re sitting away from the tents and the trees, completely exposed to the moon’s glare. I pull out a chair and sit beside them. 

My iPhone camera doesn't do this moon much justice, but here it is.

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.II, MON 07JUL2014

Loc: Churches, Middles, Old Mans

Crew: Bri, Dais, Francis, Alex

Time: 1630-2000

Conditions: Sunny, consistent, warm, walled, sectiony, 4-5 FT+.

     Bri and I sleep in a little, thus leaving at 0600 with the sun already shining brightly over the 405S. After so many dawn patrols, leaving this late feels like a travesty, but we’ve been surfing consecutive days, almost two weeks at this point, and before this long camping trip, we’re already fading.

     Upon reaching the campsite, we can see sets right in front of us, just yards away from where we’ll be pitching our tent. Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad for showing up late. Magicseaweed.com had forecasted the swell at four-to-seven feet. I’ll have to say that they’re pretty damn close. There is size, but . . . the shape is terrible. If Churches isn’t holding shape, then that’s a pretty bad sign. Middles probably isn’t either, leaving just Lowers with the shape. And then, of course, there’s Old Mans.

     Instead of paddling right out, we set up camp. Francis and Alex, who are driving to meet us from a wedding in Corona, tell us that they’re stopping in San Clemente for breakfast before showing up.

     When they arrive, we can tell they had a rough night. They look at the surf and don’t feel the urgency to get out. I don’t blame them. Neither do I. Approaching noon, the shape hasn’t improved, and there’s no sign of it backing off.

Afternoon surf check with Dais, taking a photo of him taking a photo. 

Bri making the call on North Church's lack of shape.

     Dais shows up. Alex takes payments on my reclining beach chair and racks out. He’s done. Francis racks out in the tent. Bri lies on the sand to read a book. It’s just me and Dais at the picnic table.

     “I’m just taking it all in,” he says, sitting with perfect posture beside me.

     I take it in too. No matter how many times I’ve brought my laptop, a book, or a magazine out here while camping, I’ve never been able to take my eyes off the ocean.

Dais waiting for a decent window of surf. Alex waiting to get over his hangover. 

Francis isn't posing, he just looks this HAWT while he's sleeping.

#

     By 1600, I’m antsy. The shape hasn’t changed much, but I’m expecting the incoming tide to soften things up, maybe open up some shoulders. Alex is lagging behind a little, still hazy from the night before, so the rest of us paddle out at Churches ahead of him.

     Like old times, The Sauce and I make our way out to the lineup, stopping towards the inside, sitting south from the top of the wave.

     “I like to sit here,” I say. “Wait to see if we can score this spot before going to where it’s crowded.”

     Even though I paddled out here first, there’s something about Francis’ energy that attracts the cleanest peak that I’ve seen all day towards him.

     I’m too far inside. I’d be late to turn and go. On my Lost Mini Driver, Francis has perfect position on the peak. I duckdive the wave, resurfacing just in time to see a bucket thrown out the back. Before positioning myself for the next wave, I get a glimpse of how the rest of Francis’ wave is lined up perfectly.

     The next wave is walled. I pull out. So does the longboarder next to me. I go on the third wave of the set, and it sections out. Meanwhile, Francis is inside, trying to make his way back from a long ride.

     We have to paddle towards the top of the wave, the main peak where everyone is at. The smaller waves have some shape, already affected from the tide, breaking a little fat. But the sets are pure cleaners, pushing everyone inside or making those who are outside feel spared.

     I get my wave of the day right here, a bomb that doesn’t peel perfectly, but holds shape long enough for some distance.

     I want to put a little extra mustard on this ride since The Sauce is here. I want to show him that, like him, I’ve been surfing too since he’s been gone.

     Carefully, making sure that I don’t get so excited that I blow the ride, I bottom turn and set up my backhand hack on this great blue face. I do a stalling snap at the lip, weary of a poor reentry. I pull it off. Flying back down the line I get one more snap before kicking out. Dais gives me a little clap as I make my way back.

     Then Dais. He gets one of those in-between-sets waves that’s nice and shouldery. Bri and I watch his head break the waveline as he goes right. It looks like his ride should end, but he keeps going and going.

     We paddle to North Churches. There is zero shape here. Don’t ask why we keep going north towards Middles. We can see that there’s no shape there either, but we keep paddling. Once there, there is nothing but walls. The paddle out seems further. The shape toothier.

     “I’m gonna go to Old Mans,” says Bri. Just then, the next monster set sends us darting towards the outside. Bri doesn’t make it, and she ends up back on shore.

#

     We head back to camp to rehydrate. Alex isn’t here. We look out at Churches but can’t spot him.

     Reaching Old Mans, the tide is making things a little soft, but some of the lefts are still shortboard rideable. Regardless, there is shape here.

     Everyone gets a second wave-of-the-day helping. Dais’ C.I. Average Joe board is working well in this softer surf, able to compete with the longboarders. He’s not only going left but right too. I’ve never seen him catch so many waves in one session.

     Bri gets a bunch of waves all the way to the inside. The whole session, I see her pop up, disappear, and then kick out after her long rides.

     Francis more than makes up for the lack of shape at Trestles. I’m jealous that he’s making my surfboard look so damn good right now. Left, going backhand, I watch him take off on shouldery waves, cranking clean backhanded snaps, two-to-three turns.

     I do okay, but not as well as everyone else.

     I tell Dais that we’re leaving when the sun goes down. Once it does, Bri, Francis, and I head back to camp while he stays out there for more. On the way back, we run into Lori and Kurt, and older surf couple who are part of the Manhattan Beach Ohana at our local break. I guess everyone is trying to get some of this south swell.

Now why would these guys be so happy over Jack In the Box?

     That night, we head to Jack In the Box for dinner. I watch my friends, stoked, red eyed, and giggly as they point towards the menu.

     Francis opens up a small box, stuffing his face. “Mini churros,” he says.

     Not an elaborate meal by any means, but fitting for the mood. We go over our waves, the cleanup sets, and how we lost track of Alex somewhere.

     “This was the best session I’ve ever had,” says Dais. I can’t say the same for myself, but it really makes up for it when one of your friends had such a good time, a friend who you’re genuinely stoked for. 

Junk food always tastes better after surf. Actually, any food does. . .